


Intimate

by beng



Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Trust, Vir Atish’an
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: "I want you to know that I have not betrayed my truth. That this is hard for me. That this is not me going down some ‘slippery slope’ like the one your Lord Seeker took, because the Dalish don’t value one path above another. There is no slope. Mercy is not inherently better than violence."Faith and family are delicate subjects for Martin, but before leaving for Adamant, he wants Cassandra to understand.
Relationships: Male Lavellan & Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080431





	Intimate

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [30 Days OC challenge](https://luinquesse.tumblr.com/post/187518711282/30-days-oc-challenge) by luinquesse.

“Hey.”

The Inquisitor’s quiet voice was the last thing Cassandra expected to hear in her spot above the smithy in the small hours of the morning. The Seekers’ Book of Secrets lay heavy under her gloved hands, read and re-read in the past few days until she almost knew it by heart. She’d got lost in her thoughts, waiting for the dawn, when they would set out for Adamant.

“Inquisitor?”

She wondered how he’d even found her. He had never seemed too fond of her, or paying attention to where she preferred to spend her time.

Her surprise must have shown, because Martin shot her a faltering grin as he walked over and sat in the chair opposite her. Swallowing, he carefully laid on the table a gnarled wooden staff and a folded, sealed letter.

“A new staff?” Cassandra hazarded a guess. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

Martin swallowed again, hands with slender fingers running lightly down the length of the weapon. His chin dipped lower, and he had yet to look her in the eye.

“A fire staff,” he muttered. “And no, I’m not worried for myself. I… I wanted to talk to you.”

Cassandra felt her eyebrows rise, and instantly felt ashamed of her reaction. Martin Lavellan had supported her as she’d doggedly tried to find the Seekers, had spoken to her later with such unexpected warmth and lack of judgement… He’d been a friend, not just her leader. Could she not show him the same, instead of calling him out for never really talking to her before?

“You can tell me everything,” she said with a decisive nod.

The elf sat back in the chair, his light hazel eyes still trained on the staff.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said quietly. “For letting me follow my path as long as you have.”

Cassandra frowned.

“Me? _Letting_ you follow your path as the Herald of Andraste? As the Inquisitor?”

Martin shook his head. “Vir Atish’an. The Way of Peace.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve indulged me long enough, and for that I am grateful.”

“Your barriers and healing spells have more than made up for the added combat strain on the rest of us, Inquisitor. Your people know their chances of returning from the field are higher just because of you being in it.”

“And to increase those chances further, tomorrow I bring a different staff. Tomorrow I fight.”

“You…” Cassandra blinked.

“I just wanted you to…” Casting his glance around, he seemed to be looking for the right words, as if they could be found in the dark corners of the room. “To know? To understand, maybe.”

“Understand what?” Cassandra was flummoxed. Martin Lavellan didn’t need her permission to fight, and he wasn’t asking for it, was he? Neither was he asking for any kind of forgiveness, for absolution. Unless this was some Dalish thing, in which case she’d just have to admit she didn’t follow.

Finally his gaze settled on her, greenish-grey and so unnervingly unguarded.

“That I wasn’t lying when I refused to fight before,” he said. “That I wasn’t trying to be difficult or to spite you, or the Inquisition. That this…” he wrapped his hand around the smooth wooden handle. “This does not mean I’ve rejected Vir Atish’an, and it doesn’t make my path weak or wrong.”

Still frowning, Cassandra slumped in her chair, wordlessly motioning for him to continue.

Martin gave her a small smile.

“A clan works in unison. It is not my job to convince a hunter that Andruil, the goddess of hunt, is somehow less real, or that their path is wrong. We’d die of cold and hunger if that were the case. A follower of Falon’Din, the god of death, would not try to convince me that my life’s work is futile. Neither would anyone else: we all like our good health and stories, and a welcoming hearth. Everyone chooses their path, their vallaslin, for themselves. There are no wrong paths.”

Something about his voice had relaxed her into simply listening.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly.

“Because,” Martin drew a deep breath. “A few days ago you asked me whether the Inquisition could end up as twisted as the Seekers of the Truth. And I promised you it never would.

“And so… when you see me rain fire tomorrow… I want you to know that I have not betrayed my truth. That this is hard for me. That this is not me going down some ‘slippery slope’ like the one your Lord Seeker took, because the Dalish don’t value one path above another. There is no slope. Mercy is not inherently better than violence. 

“I’d like you to think of it as… as they say in Denerim, not bringing a bunch of flowers to a bar fight. Although I’m _so much_ better with flowers,” he chuckled under his breath, and Cassandra couldn’t help a smile tugging at her lips as she recalled the huge pile of embrium Martin had recently brought back from Crestwood and dumped at the dumbfounded Surgeon’s feet.

“This is a personal choice. It doesn’t change the direction of the Inquisition,” Martin said firmly. “It just means that tomorrow I’ll be able to take better care of myself during the attack, and our fighters won’t have to split their focus that much.”

Cassandra nodded thoughtfully. “You should tell Cullen.”

Martin ran his hands over the length of his new weapon once more and then removed it from the table, swirling it deftly as he stood up and slid it into the harness across his back. “I will. But you… _you_ I wanted to _understand_.”

“Thank you.” She nodded again. “I will… think about it.”

He was almost downstairs when she noticed the letter forgotten on her table.

“Inquisitor!” she called, grabbing the message and hurrying after him into the darkened yard. “You left this.”

“Oh.” Martin turned and gave a nervous laugh when he saw the folded piece of paper in Cassandra’s outstretched hand. “That.” He drew a hand through his hair before glancing up at the myriad stars blinking frostily from the darkness above.

“If this whole thing doesn’t work out…” He waved, encompassing his new staff, the smithy, the battlements and, it seemed, the Inquisition in general. “Meaning, if I die in the… foreseeable future… please bring that message to my family.”

Cassandra glanced down at the letter. “It says ‘To Mr and Mrs Foster in Denerim’.

Martin shrugged. 

“But you’re from clan Lavellan!”

He glanced away for a long moment. Cassandra could only stare at him in flabbergasted horror. Had he lied to them this whole time?

“When you asked me my name,” he said softly. “I never gave you my surname, because that would be a bloody stupid thing to do when you’re captured, and chained, and accused of killing the Divine. I feared you’d go after my family.”

“But… Lavellan…”

“Is the clan I lived with. According to the Dalish customs, you can definitely call me Lavellan, and it’s not wrong. I’m fine with it. But I was born in Denerim, to Almaribel and Saeris _Ralaferin_ , and when my father died, my mum married a human craftsman named Lowan Foster.”

Cassandra swallowed thickly, trembling fingers creasing the folded paper.

“And now you…”

Martin snorted, one hand rising to brush over his cheekbone where Cassandra had hit him on that first meeting.

“Yeah, funny how that works,” he murmured. When he looked at her again, he was grinning brightly, laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

“Now you’re the only person I’d trust to bring them news of my death.”


End file.
